***************************************

Everything hurt, in a way that terrified him. He wanted out, out, out.

“Is this hell?”

Bright lights, when he opened his eyes, and that same goddamn unmistakeable dour voice. “No. Cedars-Sinai.”

Spike tried to speak again but his vocal cords felt like sandpaper. Angel handed him a glass of water. “Drink. Small sips.”

A few moments later Spike had downed the glass and shoved it away with a filthy glare. “What happened?”

Angel took the empty glass back from him. “I had you transported here from an industrial medicine clinic outside Sunnydale. What was left of it, at least. Migrant workers on their way south noticed a commotion near the wreckage, called the Highway Patrol. Before that, I don’t know.”

“Feel like I took a bath in holy water.”

“You’ve got a nasty case of sunburn. In addition to massive heatstroke. That’s why your throat is swollen, and your skin is sensitive.” Angel permitted himself a smile. “Not to mention extremely disgusting to look at.”

“Sunburn. You stupid wanker. What’s next, food poisoning?” He looked around for the first time. “Fucking hell, get me out of here! It’s a hospital! They’ve got me hooked up to machines, Angelus –”

Angel waited patiently. Only the beeping of the equipment beside Spike’s bed interrupted the silence.

“Do you feel it?” he asked, after some time. “Your heartbeat? The blood inside you, finally alive?”

Shudders ran through Spike, bone-deep tremors he didn't even think to hide. “I suppose congratulations are in order,” Angel was saying but panic drowned out the rest of his words. Spike's hands moved frantically of their own accord, clutching at the sheets and bedrail until Angel took them in his own.

“Calm down, Spike. Breathe. Breathe! Or I’ll have to get a doctor in here.”

Long moments before Spike felt he could talk again. “I was looking for Buffy,” he said in a small voice.

Angel flinched, not at the statement but at the confused, childlike tone. “I…gathered as much. I’ve had my people monitor the area around Sunnydale for quite some time, in case anything emerged from the ruins of the Hellmouth. I never expected you, though. I told the CHP that Anya was your sister; that you were wild with grief and determined to recover her body. They believed me, or pretended to. Power makes many things possible.”

“Buffy,” Spike repeated. He began to struggle again, twisting up the sheets in his fervor. “She’s down there, Angel, you have to get her out of there, Dawn too –”

“Spike,” Angel broke in gently. He was still holding Spike’s hands in his own and somehow that helped. Very very light strokes of his thumb along Spike’s palms. Soothing.

“She’s fine, Spike. She’s not there. Neither is Dawn. They all got out, except Anya, and you. You closed the Hellmouth, and they escaped. Don't you remember?”

“I don’t know. I guess. Where is she?”

“She and Dawn stayed with me for a couple of weeks. Then they moved. To Cleveland, if you can believe it. Giles is helping them get settled in.”

Spike sank back against the pillow. “She left?” he said oddly.

“Well, yes. There was nothing keeping her here any longer.” “Nothing,” Spike said, in that same indecipherable tone.

“Now that you're here, that's obviously not the case. I didn’t want to contact her until I could be sure that you’d survive. Moreover, that you hadn’t been…damaged by your experience.” Spike gave a little jolt at that.

“Angel?"

“Yes?”

“You don’t think…the soul. The soul is still there, right? I still have it?”

A pause. “Yes,” Angel answered softly. “The soul is still there.”

Spike seemed to relax. “That’s good,” he said vaguely. “I worked hard for that, you know. Be a shame to waste it.”

Angel released him and stood. “You need to rest, Spike. This – all this – it’s going to take some getting used to. I'm going to call Buffy –”

“No!”

"No...?"

“Buffy doesn’t find out.”

"Spike, you can't -"

Spike's gaze pinned him; Angel laid a steadying hand on the chair he'd vacated.

"You owe me, Angel. Now I'm calling in the favor. You say nothing."

Angel stared at him, expressionless. “Are you sure?”

“Yes.”

“All right,” he said blandly. “Now sleep."

***************************************

Cleveland, Ohio
August 2004

It used to be, when she called L.A., she’d glean bits of information from whoever answered the phone at the Hyperion. Cordelia could be chatty if the mood struck her, particularly if there were scandalous developments in Buffy’s own life at the time. One mortifying revelation exchanged for another. Wesley didn’t trust Buffy, never had, but she got along well enough with Gunn and a mild, meaningless flirtation amused them both and kept her up on the latest news.

Now, of course, she called Angel at the office. Standing impatiently in the middle of her drab little living room, waiting through two receptionists and an electronica version of 'Goodbye Stranger' before he finally got on the phone.

“Hello?”

“You arrogant, controlling son-of-a-bitch.”

“I'm great, Buffy, thanks for -”

“How dare you? How dare you keep this from me? Do you really hate him that much?”

A sigh. “I assume we’re discussing Spike.”

“Spike? Was that who that was? I saw a guy with a dog and the burning desire to get as far away from me as humanly possible. I want some answers.”

“Don’t drag me into this, Buffy. The less I know about your relationship with Spike, the better.”

“There is no relationship, thanks to you – you –”

Indignance crackled over the line. “Hold on. Are you accusing me of something? Because believe me, the last thing I want is any involvement in Spike’s love life. Or yours. Especially if they happen to converge.”

“So you deliberately deceived me. All this time he's been back and you never said a word.”

“That's right.”

She sank down onto the arm of the couch. “Why? Will someone, please, just tell me why? Because I’m not getting this.”

“I've rarely known why Spike makes the choices he does. They boggle me, even when in retrospect they seem to make some sort of terrible cosmic sense. I brought the subject up more than once, but in the end I felt I had to keep his confidence. We do have some history, Buffy, that doesn’t include you.”

Her voice was measured and tight when she responded. “I wonder how hard, exactly, you tried to change his mind.”

She could almost see his glower as he gripped the receiver. Or maybe he was using one of those headset-things. She hoped he looked like a big dork. “Don't go blaming me for however things ended between you. Spike and I will never be friends. But we are family. We both accept that now, in a way we couldn’t before. He asked this of me and I did it. And you’re right: after a while, I stopped trying. Because he was all right, Buffy. He was doing all right.”

She felt cold again, like she had last night, standing in the path of Spike’s chill wind. Angel’s tone gentled.

“Buffy, when we found him…you can’t imagine. He’d been exposed to the elements for days, digging through the rubble. It was he who found Anya, you know.” ‘Heard about demon girl.’ No, she didn’t know.

“He was raving, convinced that you and Dawn had died as well. Newly human and he didn’t even realize it; he cared only for you two. And learning you were alive after all didn’t erase the pain and torment he’d gone through. He was broken, Buffy. He had to rebuild.”

“Without me.”

“I can’t tell you that. But he has his own life now and as far as I can see, it doesn’t involve large-scale evil, the murder of innocents, or unrequited love. So you’ll forgive me if I want to keep it that way. You're looking for Big Answers, Buffy, and I can't give you any. He’s –”

“Moved on,” she interrupted dully. “I know. And you’re just the right person to help.” She slammed the phone down in the middle of his reply.

Oh, there was the ring of truth to it, as there'd always been. And it shamed her, that she could believe the words from Angel's mouth but not Spike's. Even when Spike had never lied to her. 'No, you don't. But thanks for saying it.' Spike only lied to himself.

Angel clearly thought Spike was better off without her. And he'd know, wouldn't he? Buffy curled up on the couch and indulged in a few good sniffles. She wasn't made for this. She was too clumsy at love.

Confusion kept her away for four days. Trying to do the right thing, and ‘his own life now’ and the echo of Spike’s laughter but eventually even that wasn't enough. One night after Dawn left the apartment Buffy found herself in her bedroom, changing her clothes and carefully applying makeup.

She didn’t go back to his place. She’d promised, and if Angel could respect Spike’s wishes then so could she. Besides, the lights hadn't been on when she went by.

She began trolling the downtown clubs, the types of places Dawn, and apparently Spike, went. There were more than she thought and when she came up empty she had to widen her search. Inside the third ‘gentleman’s cabaret’ she visited, she found him.

He was sitting near the center of the room, with a crowd; holding court, more like. As she approached she could hear him speaking. “…Lair up on the east side. Nasty buggers, making me work for a living –” A round of guffaws as Spike described the scene.

She went to him then and his grin didn’t fade. Encouraged, she found herself tumbling into his lap, squeezed pleasantly between him and the wobbly table. The smell of alcohol was strong on his breath as he continued chatting easily, one loose arm around her and it wasn’t a declaration of love, but at least he wasn’t pushing her away.

He conducted his mysterious business and Buffy was content to remain there. Strobe lights and throbbing music and, okay, topless women, but it was worth it because she was in his arms, finally, she’d caught him at the right moment or he’d missed her enough or he’d just understood, at last, that they were meant to be together. He didn’t speak to her, just kept feeding her drink after drink. That was fine. It was all fine.

After an hour he and another man left the table to huddle near the bar, and Buffy found herself alone with his companions. Two human, two demon, all with varying sleaze factors. One of the demons spoke up. “I’m Fortuna,” he said solicitously.

She smiled, relaxed by the liquor and relief at finding Spike, really finding him, again. “I’m Buffy.”

Fortuna gestured around the table. “And this is Arraxmehe, Bingley and Nate.”

Memory stirred in her foggy brain; Dawn's jumbled tale of the night she first saw Spike. “Nate?” She looked down, at his mangled and bandaged right hand. “That looks like it hurt.”

He looked away. “Work-related injury.”

Spike returned, alone, and another hour later the meeting broke up. She turned to him. “Dance with me. Please, Spike.”

He smiled obligingly. “Always, pet.”

She led him out to the floor and they swayed together, more slowly than the music demanded. He was drunk, she realized. Not fall-down plastered cavegirl drunk, but definitely buzzed.

“I remember the first time I saw you,” he whispered in her ear. She shivered pleasurably.

“Dancing just like this, weren’t you? I watched you for a long time. Thought about all the things I wanted to do to you. And now here you are.”

“Forever.”

He kissed her then and God, it was right. Nothing had changed. Not even the life thrumming inside him changed this. He still tasted the same, and he still lit her up inside, and they still fit together perfectly. She could feel it starting all over again, that slow melting down low. He gave her cravings that only he could satisfy. Made her want – him.

He had to feel it too. His hands drifted down to her ass, pulling her tight to him. They were grinding together now, and he was hard. He wanted her too.

“Sweet baby. I know what you need.”

He was licking along her collarbone, where beads of sweat gathered. He bit down lightly and she whimpered.

“Take me home.”

“That what you want? Me in your bed? Do you want that?”

In response she dragged him off the dance floor, to the exit. Inside the car they groped furiously, tangled up in each other and panting with it. Two blocks from the apartment she’d wriggled up next to him (a somewhat more complex maneuever now that he didn’t have the DeSoto and the accompanying bench seats). One block and he had his hand down her skirt. She bucked up and he pressed harder, moved deeper inside her. She was moaning now, begging him with sounds because she was beyond words.

“Oh, yeah. You’re so tight. Were you waiting for me, baby?” She nodded. He swerved to the curb and parked. Then he was on her again, covering her as if he was as desperate as she was. “Such a greedy little thing. Come on, Buffy. Feel me fucking you. Feel me.”

“Yes. Yes.”

Three fingers inside her now, his thumb tracing her clit but it was his eyes that set her off; seeing him again crouched over her, feral and demanding. She came with a sob.

Before she had fully recovered she pulled at him, dragged him out of the car and up the steps to her building. His skin was so warm, pressed against her back as she fumbled to unlock the front door.

They stumbled into the apartment, unwilling to stop touching for even as long as it took to make their way to her room. And still Spike was grinning at her, in that predatory way that reminded her not of their last times together but their first – at her school (where he’d died for her and everybody else) and standing in front of her house engaged in bizarre, brutal negotiations. The thought flitted through her mind that they were back to being adversaries but surely that couldn’t be right. Not when he was running his hands up her bare legs, backing her into her bedroom.

He kicked the door shut behind him. “Strip off. Let me see you. Fuck, Buffy –”

She undressed in front of him, watching him watching her. His hand drifted down to the front of his jeans and she actually had to stop, then, sinking limply to the edge of the bed. He tore off his shirt and followed her down.

She grabbed him tightly, bringing his body onto hers. “Spike, Spike, you’re here.”

He buried his head in her neck, straining to be closer. “Do you want me?”

“Yes.”

“Tell me.”

“I dreamed of you. In this bed. Spike, I'll do anything, whatever you want, I'll -”

“What did you dream?”

“You. You touching me, holding me.”

His hands were on her breasts; warm palms calloused against her peaked nipples. His head sank lower, to rest below her throat. His tongue drew a path downward.

“Tell me.”

“I love you. I missed you so much. It hurt when you were gone and I didn’t know how to fix it, I was dying inside. Never stop touching me. Never leave me, never, never leave…”

And suddenly he pulled back, his body frozen on top of hers.

“Parasite,” he snarled.

***************************************

She wasn’t crying when he left. That was for the best. Hadn’t meant for this to happen. Bloody stupid, and he knew he couldn’t hold his liquor the way he once did. Still, at least they both knew how it was between them, now.

He silently pushed open the door to what he assumed was Dawn’s room. Somewhat more brightly decorated than the rest of the apartment, and what was up with that anyway? It ought to be filled with garish girly things, beads and lace and the sort. Instead it was spare, almost spartan, like there had been no energy left to pretty up the place.

He breathed a sigh of relief to see the bed empty. Wouldn’t do for her to hear any of that. He shut the door again and walked down the hallway, buttoning his jeans as he went, and found Dawn standing at the entrance of the tiny kitchen.

“How could you?” she hissed. “She loves you.”

“She’s a big girl. Knew what she was getting into so you stay the fuck out of it, yeah?”

Dawn glared at him, tears shining in her eyes. “When did you become the asshole boyfriend?”

He didn’t look away, but his face hardened. “Was always an asshole, Dawn. Just never the boyfriend.”

Part 8: Brother, Brother

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